Boulder, CO – “Vanity Fair”- Between Tours – August 30, 2000

After the John Cafferty show I flew to Martha’s Vineyard for a family photo shoot with Annie Lebowitz for Vanity Fair. I know, this is a huge honor and how dare I mention all this privilege in one sentence. It’s disgusting—an embarrassment of riches — and I should hate myself for normalizing it and I do, believe me, but it gets worse. In the following days, People and US magazine sent reporters to the island to do stories on me—Just ME!!! and I got all caught up in my ego’s sparkly spiderweb. The attention made me drunk and blind and disgustingly ambivalent about it all. Make-up artists curled my eyelashes, lighting specialists lit angles I didn’t know I had and cameras snapped mechanical bites off my soul.

Annie Lebowitz Polaroid From Shoot

But as the fog of attention lifted and I made my way back to Colorado on the 25th, I felt a brutal hangover from drinking so much false love. I was worried about how easily I’d given myself to the adrenaline and glitter of being celebrated. Didn’t I know better than to get high off that kind of affection? Hadn’t I gone to therapy for a year, for god sake, to ensure I wouldn’t get hooked on applause and yet there I’d been—no resistance whatsoever—guzzling for the cheap buzz People and US and Annie and Vanity Fair offered. I wondered, as I wandered past first class, to my coach seat in row 16B, if my recent heartache had something to do with how readily I’d welcome the drug of artificial affection.

Thankfully, Boulder brought me right back down to size. Rehearsing for a week in a rundown, grungy garage warehouse sandwiched between a homeless shelter and “The Bus Stop” (Boulder’s local titty bar) will bust even the most resilient of egos.

Tonight was our last practice before we leave for the West Coast tomorrow. The warehouses were quiet when I arrived at 7:30 but within the hour, 20 bands would fill North Boulder with a soup of colorful sound—Thrash, Bluegrass, Punk, Rock and Reggae would all blend in the humid air outside our open garage doors until the neighborhood was a brick of impenetrable noise. There would be bad covers of “Brown-eyed Girl,” bad covers of “Blinded Me with Science,” and bad covers of “Fire and Rain.”

While I strung my guitar, musicians skulked like skinny, crooked shadows in the slick, wet parking lot — smoking cigarettes and waiting for their drummers to show up.
Some of them actually live out here in the warehouses — those who can’t live off their gig money or tour too much to justify paying rent on a real apartment. Kyle, our own drummer, used to be one of them. He showed us where he’d made his bed in the very space we were practicing in. “Unit #50 costs $35 bucks a night whether you’re rehearsing or sleeping,” he told us.

Even though it was raining, we left the door open, like the rest of the bands, to avoid the musty, dank, moldy stench that grows on you if you hang around one of these spaces too long. The fan was on and I came up with the brilliant idea to spray my gas station imitation Drakkar into the spinning fan blades to make the room smell better, but when I spritzed the fan, the imitation Drakkar flew directly back at me, into my hair and eyes. The guys howled at my idiocy and I laughed along with them.

We rehearsed for a couple of hours just to polish intros and outro’s and then, loaded up the van. We leave for Salt Lake City in the morning. As I helped Delucchi shove the last guitar into the boot under a yellow street light I thought back to Martha’s Vineyard just days ago — how fast I’d gone from feeling like the bell of the ball to just another struggling musician in a van. I hugged my guys goodnight and drove home to get one last good night’s sleep. I crawled like a hermit crab into my bed and dreamed of the road ahead. It’s good to have my feet on the ground again.

People

Day 61 – “Mixing” – March 14, 2000

We’re finally done recording at Timber Trails (YAY/Thank GOD) and Mike and I have moved our recorded tracks East. We’ve been invited to mix* our album in Whitney Houston’s home studio in Mendham, New Jersey. So far there’s no sight or sign of “The Voice,” and El Blanco thinks there’s little chance we’ll run into her over the next three weeks. “It’s probably better that way,” I tell him, “I’d no doubt embarrass us both with my fawning all over her.” The grounds are impeccable. The studio walls are a rich purple and the luxurious leather sofas are white as snow. We spent the morning moving into our new studio (much relieved to be out of Chris Wright’s, Timber Trails) and the afternoon preparing to mix.

Preparation for mixing involves a laborious process of inventorying each track, adjusting settings, checking tones, and notching pesky frequencies.* A loud 2K feedback rings out of the monitors.


I imagine this is what an ant’s amplified death cry sounds like. The ring stops temporarily before piercing the air again … and again … and again until that damn ring has found a home in my left ear.


It’s the sound of silver
It’s traffic
It’s the sensation of biting into an overly frozen raspberry popsicle with your back teeth
It’s tinsel
It’s nasal spray
It’s too much coffee
It’s the sound of exes echoing complaints years after their last fight
It’s annoying.


As a means of defense, I have a full bottle of Bach Rescue Remedy in my purse (now half empty), essential oils, chocolate, a picture of my brother, my knitting, and most importantly, earplugs.


Footnotes:

  • Mixing: Mixing a record happens once all parts (drums, bass, guitar, strings, horns, vocals, etc.) are recorded. It is the process of balancing various elements of each song to ensure they complement each other. It includes balancing levels, panning, EQing, adding effects, automation, and creating cohesion to shape the final sound and prepare the album for mastering (the final polish before distribution).
  • Notching Frequencies: Eliminating unwanted frequencies that can muddy the mix or cause issues. This process includes identifying and reducing frequencies that may cause problems, such as feedback, resonance, or muddiness. This fine-tuning ensures clarity and a cleaner sound.

Day 57- “My Dad’s a Badass” – March 10, 2000

I’m coming down with something. My nose is runny to match the watering of my eyes and the pounding of my head. It was a mistake to think I could fly to New York Monday and then back the next day to lay down horns without compromising my immune system. But there was no way in HELL I was going to miss my pop getting inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

Paul McCartney did the induction honors. He was lighthearted and loose. He talked about the start of The Beatle’s record label “Apple,” back in the 60s and how after looking for some talent to put on it, came across a recording of some “haunting” guy who could really sing and play the guitar. They signed James Taylor immediately as one of their first artists. Paul handed the mic off to my dad with a hug. Pop was dressed n black looking not unlike the award he was presented.


Handsome, humble and hysterical my dad held his shiny, new chrome statue in hand. He thanked everyone from his mother to his tour bus company for helping him receive the honor and then, looking severely at the weapon-like statue in his hand said, “I only hope one of these doesn’t fall into the hands of someone desperate enough to use it.” He was a champ and it was a thrill and honor to watch him along with my brother, grandmother and his “snookums” and fiancé Kim, be recognized and embraced by his musical community.


But now, I’m sick and for the past 4 hours (no exaggeration) we’ve been trying to move a horn section on “Fall For Me,” into place. My ears don’t work right anymore. There comes a point in listening to a track where I can predict where flaws are coming and mentally prepare my brain to adjust my ears so that I don’t hear the blemishes. It’s a very odd and frustrating phenomenon. While there isn’t a specific term for it, the concept relates to how brains anticipate musical patterns. The ear develops expectations based on a song’s structure, and when something deviates from that structure (like a mistake), experienced listeners can (intentionally or unintentionally) anticipate it and adjust their focus. I might leave the studio tonight thinking everything sounds perfect, only to return tomorrow to find an entire vocal track racing, or pitchy or missing a lyric. It’s infuriating.


Time does not pass; it just piles up on itself like dirty laundry. It’s 9:45 when I glance at the clock. Then, after what seems like 20 minutes I look again and it’s only 9:47. Two slender minutes have passed and I’m glaring at time as though my intimidating expression might speed the second hand around the racetrack perimeter of my watch face.

I’m in no immediate rush. The rush is not against the minutes but against the months and so I push on fragile seconds to get home, to get to the studio, to get to the next song, to get the artwork done, to get to the plane, to get to New York next Monday, to get this album mixed down, to get this album mastered, to get it pressed, and packaged, to get the band rehearsed and out on the road and promote it. And so I rush it all toward an uncertain future, as though my intimidating expression might speed the second hand around the racetrack perimeter of my watch face.


And now it’s 9:50 and I’m still sick but also still grateful I got to see my dad inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. You’re a badass dad.

Day 28 – “Sometimes Hums Along” – February 10, 2000

There is a draft in my heart. I try to shutter the door against it but the cold gets in. I am pregnant with a sorrow that tosses in my belly, kicking to be born into song. I go through Kipp withdrawals 6-7 times a day. Sometimes they manifest when I’m feeling lonely and instinctively want to call him to tell him something funny or ask his advice about something I’m unsure of. I miss him at bedtime. I miss him in his kitchen at Timber Trails making breakfast and matte. I miss him at night, out on the town dancing his unique straight-arm dance. Most of all, I miss the man who was my best friend—the one I shared my time, secrets, fears, joys, body, dreams, and life with for the past two years. Now, he’s gone, and I hide in the studio, away from the ghost of Kipp who still lingers in my home. Ugg, my home with its unmade bed, unwatered plants, sleepless nights, and screaming phone. Ugg, my kitchen with its haunted faucet that drips, drips, drips into my subconscious, blending with an assortment of hums, mumbles, and sighs.

To make the situation more confusing, in the midst of losing Kipp as my boyfriend, my brother has decided to take him on as his manager. I have no idea how to navigate this situation.

Thank God for my mama. She’s been there for me through all of this. All my instability, regrets, fears, anger, and insecurities. Last night, she stayed on the phone with me until my tears sealed my eyes shut, then lullabied me into a stream of dreams. She managed to give minimal advice—just comfort, which is all I really wanted, not a cure. Definitely not a cure. A cure would require energy I just don’t have right now. This morning as the dull winter light haunted my room, she called just in time to distract me from my impending woes. She told me she’d found photos of herself in the studio from when she was pregnant with me. One of them had a speech bubble she’d written at the time that prophetically read, “Hey mom, let me out, I’ve gotta sing my song.” She read me old-school reports from when I was six as I drove north up Broadway, and stayed on the phone making me laugh until the mountains around the studio ate our cell reception.


In the newfound silence, I was consumed again by my grief. Boulder was white—like frozen breath, blank sheets on the bed, Clorox, sheep, sightless eyes that cannot sleep. There was nothing outside except white, as though someone in charge made a typo in the morning and ended up whiting out the entire day.

I grabbed my guitar from the trunk and walked, coffee in hand, through the narrow parking area towards the studio. I was looking down at my mug to make sure I didn’t spill when I walked straight into a 13-foot pole saw tied to the roof of Chris Wright’s midsize Mitsubishi. For anyone unfamiliar with this style of tree-trimming device, it’s a combination of a scythe and saw attached to a long pole used to reach high limbs. These tools are notoriously sharp in order to accommodate the user’s lack of leverage from the ground. The blade struck me right between the eyes and before I made it through the door I could feel blood pouring down the bridge of my nose, cascading down my chin and dripping into my mouth. Soucy put ice on it and some lavender oil. Chris Wright arrived as Soucy was patching me up. He was in striped pajama bottoms slurping milk from a bowl of Captain Crunch, and between bites mumbled something about “gotta watch where you’re going.” It’s official; I hate Chris Wright.


We’re working on vocals for “Without Me,” which seems appropriate. It’s a song about how lonely and hollow it feels to be loved when you’re disassociated and without yourself.

I know there is a day outside
A night or a starless dawn
I’ve seen her out there smiling
Just off the front porch lawn
She’s sitting up impatiently
In her best wedding gown
She’s waiting for the spring to come
And though she has no voice for song

I feel she enjoys listening
And sometimes hums along.

Day 24 – “Party at the Studio” – February 6, 2000

There was a party at the studio Saturday night.
It was warm on the terrace overlooking the lit-up treasure chest of downtown. The city lights were corrugated by heat waves pouring from the mouth of the studio’s open doors. People, in silhouette, spilled onto the veranda to smoke cancer sticks and make out with strangers.


Everyone I knew was there though it wasn’t my party. There’s no way in HELL I’d throw a party in the studio. The chance of someone spilling a drink on a computer, moving a knob on the soundboard or tripping over a power cable, guitar, or storage drive was way toooooo great. But no one was asking me. This was Chris Wright’s studio and according to him, he was “damn well going to have a party at his house if he damn well pleased.” Apparently, he didn’t mind putting our work in jeopardy and I vowed this album would be the last I recorded at Sky Trails Studio.


Partygoers were adorned in the latest Urban Outfitters had to offer. Girls entered the house giggling then grimaced as they noticed the other bodies wearing their same sequined dresses. Luckily, though my publicist Ariel and I, had been to Urban Outfitters earlier, looking for what the invitation called for (Whimsical Attire) we found nothing inspiring and instead, opted for hoodies and sweatpants as a form of silent rebellion against the party. Frankly, I was only going to keep an eye on the equipment and to make sure no one walked with our instruments.


“NO DRINKS PAST THIS POINT” read the sign outside the control room and I breathed a sigh of relief. Chris had promised he’d post this for me and I felt grateful. But inside… were drinks! and people listening to our rough takes with Chris Wright at the helm pushing all the soundboard buttons and twisting Michael’s carefully adjusted knobs. Drunk people were playing my guitar while their dogs jumped all over the strings. IN THE CONTROL ROOM and I felt completely out of control.


But it had been a long, successful day leading up to this point —the kind of day that has the power to take your mind off a broken heart. The kind that affords you the luxury of brushing off a blatant slight. I’d woke to a message from Kyle Comerford agreeing to be our new drummer. This was a huge relief after a long, arduous search. Kyle is a gem, our first pick from a lineup of 10 players we auditioned. He’ll pick up from Brian once the record is done. Tom Rush called later in the morning to invite me to tour this summer with his production company “Club 47” which is a huge opportunity. And in the afternoon, I’d recorded some songs for The Farrelly Brother’s new movie, Me Myself and Irene, at a studio downtown. I was honored that my buddy Pete Farrelly wanted me on his production and at his request, recorded a handful of Steely Dan songs and a Beverly Breemer’s tune called “Don’t Say You Don’t Remember.” I’m not sure any of them are good enough to make it onto the movie but recording with Soucy in a different studio for a different project was a great distraction from my heartache.

Sally & Soucy’s version of Steely Dan’s Any World That I’m Welcome To (never released)
Sally & Soucy’s version of Steely Dan’s Razor Boy (never released)


Despite the many glorious, uplifting events of the day, the party made me tired. My exhaustion was fueled by Chris Wright’s blatant disrespect for Michael’s and my hard work, drinks teetering on the soundboard, dogs humping my guitar, and the sad, soundless strum in my chest of missing Kipp. As people began to fade into chemically induced slumbers, Ariel and I faded too — down the switchbacks in the snowy driveway, down through the stoic, sentinel pines, and back into the melted, gold puddle of lights shining brightly against the horizon.

Day 21 – “Breaking Up With Kipp” – February 3, 2000

Gretchen Wigan, a massage therapist who does intuitive touch on both Kipp and me, was working on my legs Wednesday when she mentioned, “I’m picking up relationship energy really strongly in your ankles.” Her room was a womb – dark, warm and soothing. A candle flickered in the corner. She continued, “If you stay in this relationship, you’re gonna lose yourself.” The statement was bold and rang true from my feet to my head. The words she gave breath to were already beating in my heart (and apparently my ankles) when she said them.

I’ve been folding my life into his for the better part of two years despite knowing, days after we hooked up while on an ecstasy trip in Crested Bute’s backcountry, we were probably wrong for one another. But by then, I already adored him—his humor, his strength, his heart, his sense of adventure, and his generosity and it wasn’t just the ecstasy talking. Of course, he was out of my wheelhouse. I’d never dated someone so blatantly alpha — so macho, bold, and self-assured. Perhaps, I remember thinking at the time, I should go against my instincts and date against my grain. Maybe the guys I’m intrinsically attracted to have all been wrong for me because I have a bad picker. But nearly two years in, the love was bleached out of our relationship and my insecurities had magnified tenfold. Though Kipp is a glorious soul, the light he shines on my character highlights my brokenness and I grow more and more convinced I’m lucky to have someone like Kipp who’ll even put up with my wretchedness. Of course, I don’t blame him solely for my insecurities. The smoldering embers of my unworthiness were with me way before Kipp came on the scene. I only mean that his presence amplifies my self-doubt and leaves me feeling hopeless.

And now my ankles were screaming for Gretchen to say what my heart already knew. It was time for this to be over. He wore a faceless expression on his bald head. “Come here,” I beamed with a smile across a universe of emotions. I held him when I said, “Maybe we should think seriously about whether we want to stay together.” He knew this was coming. It had been a cold slap through the phone when I’d asked if I could come over to talk about the health of our relationship.

“I’m sure I want to stay together, “Kipp said robotically, his mouth muffled in the crook of my elbow. I swallowed hard and spoke from my ankles when I finally owned my long-resisted truth,
“Then, I guess, I mean, I guess I need to think seriously about whether I want to stay with you.” It was painful and I don’t know which bothered me more—that I was burning a bridge I’d help build, or hurting someone I loved deeply and truly.

“It seems to me,” I continued, “That we’re driving each other crazy and have been for a while. It’s hard to know whether we’re growing from the pain we’re causing one another, or just chipping away at what’s essential in each other. You know?” He didn’t know.

I drove away through the canyon through tears, to the studio where the hours trickled by. The slow ones itched. The fast ones bled. I couldn’t mention the breakup to the rest of the band. Some of them are Kipps housemates and at best it would only be a distraction— one we couldn’t afford at the rate we’re tracking. I floated amongst my bandmates like gristle in an otherwise healthy soup. Back in my office of a bathtub, I found the misery that loves company, very lonely inside of me.

We worked on vocals the rest of the day. We’d been working on them all week. The one exception was when Maceo Parker (James Brown’s saxophone player) came to the studio on Super Bowl Sunday to lay down tracks on “Dvoren” and “Forty Years.” What an honor! I knit him a hat to say thank you when he refused any other form of payment. He promptly regifted it to his manager Natasha.


After 10 hours of working on the vocal track for, “For Kim,” Michael and I agreed we needed a break from sound and went to town for dinner. As we drove through the dark canyon, shadows of pines raced out of the way of our headlights. Up ahead in the valley, airplanes looked like fireflies dancing over Denver’s International Airport.

Mike and I sat across from one another in a dark booth over Vietnamese food trying to explain why recording has been moving at a snail’s pace. The album release date* (April 15th) is a mere two months away, and from the corner booth at Chez Thuy, that time frame seems ridiculously ambitious if not straight-up hilarious. The budget, well we’ve long since gone over that. But how is it, working 12-hour days – 7 days a week, we’re not further along by now? I don’t mention that I think Michael’s chewing habits are a metaphor for the pace of our production as he digs into a plate of banh xeo. We’re both exhausted and on top of that, I’m sad.

Back at the studio with fresh ears and a full belly, I find myself back in my bathtub, trying to psych myself up to sing another take of “For Kim” when my heart wants to shatter. I don’t know whether to call Kipp or let it lie. I recline in the empty, porcelain tub asking my Magic 8 Ball for answers. It’s reply? “Ask again later” and “Better not tell you now.”


FOOTNOTES:

*Release date- The projected date of an album release after all the elements have been completed: 1. Preproduction 2. Recording 3. Mixing 4. Album Artwork 5. PR campaign 6. Mastering 7. Booking the promotional tour 8. Pressing the CD 9. Sending merchandise to retail

Day 14 – “Cardboard Pants” – January 28, 2000

The suede pants I dropped off at the dry cleaners on Monday are no longer suede. They’re more cardboard than leather and I ask them why?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” the owners say in unison.
“So why is the stain I brought them in for, still there?”
“Oh, that’s a catsup stain, that won’t come out of those pants,” They say laughing as though I’d asked them how to get to Mars by bus.
“OK,” I say calmly, “so why is the hemline all taken out and shredded like that?”
“It was that way when you brought them in,” they say as though they’d rehearsed their bit 100s of times. I pay them their $24 dollars and drive my cardboard pants to the studio in my Rav 4 Toyota feeling robbed as though someone stole my favorite memory and insisted it was theirs all along.


We finished guitar on “Forty Years” in the morning and moved on to “Dvoren,” which, after 5 hours, we decided we didn’t want guitar on. Despite our chaos and indecisiveness, I felt relaxed in the studio for the first time in ages. With a full night of sleep under my belt, I could’ve recorded forty more songs. But I could tell El Blanco was stressed. Every other word he uttered was followed by a deep, lonesome sigh. He cracked his neck every half an hour or so, cupping his skull and chin in his bony white hands and turning his head like it were a stuck jam jar lid. He admitted to wishing things (guitar) were moving along quicker but neither of us could legitimize picking up the pace. Speeding up the recording process means slowing down the mixing process. Being less finicky about guitar tones means not having the best track possible.

“We just have to let go of this whole time thing,” I suggested sitting cross-legged on the floor with one reassuring hand on his knee. The electronics buzzed a furious hum and a magenta mote of carpet swirled around my teal, velvet skirt. We stared at the ground like a developing picture in a dark room. Finally, Michael agreed we needed to loosen up our reigns on the calendar, cracked his neck again, and sighed.


In the late afternoon we worked the wah-wah pedal into “One Step,” a song about confronting fears; taking one step into the unknown, finding strength in weakness, and giving yourself to the abyss. When I wrote it, the image in my head was of Wile E. Coyote suspended in the air.
The roadrunner’s scratched a line in the dirt which he’s crossed over again and again until he realizes he’s been tricked into walking off a ledge and stands suspended in the air with no ground beneath him. But, curiously, he doesn’t fall until he realizes there’s no ground.

That cartoon taught me that falling, floating, and flying are all the same action; it’s the fear that “no ground” means “down” that makes me “fall.” But I don’t have to, and that’s what the song is about – taking one first step out into the middle of the air, into the mystery, letting go of the fear that makes “no ground” mean “fall” and, instead, deciding it means “fly.”


The song is a reminder to me to lose control, and in the chaos, find freedom.

Day 13 – “Split Decisions” – January 27, 2000

It’s snowing. The light outside is blue. The horizon is dismissed for the day and it’s quiet, the way a bath is after the faucet’s turned off. Deer wade across the wide white landscape —calm as velvet when it’s running the same way. I wasn’t going to write today — frankly, there’s been little to write about.

Chris Soucy

We dubbed Michael White, “El Blanco,” this week because ‘Blanco’ is his last name in Spanish and because Mike’s skin is whiter than milk, a consequence of working in studios all his life. El Blanco is skinny too (no correlation to his new moniker) due in no small part to the calories he burns eating. He insists on chewing every single bite 32 times to promote digestive health. It’s not the only reason but, no doubt, has contributed to the two days it’s taken to get the right guitar tone for “Split Decisions,” A song I wrote a couple weeks ago. Every chew chews into studio time. “Do you think we’re still on target to finish the record by February?” I ask El Blanco between bits of tabbouleh. He doesn’t want to speak with his mouth full and by the time he’s done chewing we’ve both forgotten my question.

Chris Soucy sits atop a wooden swivel, bar-chair trying not to move or breathe. The slightest gesture could be disastrous to the recording process and might completely change the tone he and El Blanco have worked so hard to find. None of our patience can afford that. We’re tired, and our ears hurt from having to hear the same song over and over for two days straight. So, Chris sits dutifully like a stuffed sparrow on his perch. He remains expressionless except for moments he looks disappointed, after a take when El Blanco turns to him and says, “Try it again.” The room is hot; the control room electronics heat it up all day until we’re in tank tops and shorts and still sweating. It’s dark too because we’ve been too focused on tone to notice it’s becoming night.

Hours slip away under the music. We forget to pee, we forget to turn on lights, we forget to eat (and I’m not about to remind El Blanco!!!) My role is pretty much to sit on the wall-to-wall, parsley-colored rug — back against the paprika-painted paneling — listening, disapproving, listening again, suggesting alternatives, approving, and trying, unsuccessfully, to move things along. I do some calculations.

  • “Split Decisions” is a 5-minute song
  • There are twelve, 5 minutes in an hour
  • We’ve worked on the song from 10 am to 10 pm the past two days
  • That means we’ve heard “Split Decisions” approximately 1,440 times.

You’d think it would be almost impossible to like a song after that many listens, but miraculously we find ourselves humming it on our way home and more miraculous still, we find a way to still like each other.


Day 9 – “What The Studio is Really Like” – January 23, 2000

I wake up, as usual, at 3 am and vaguely recall hearing something about sleeplessness during specific hours indicating an imbalance in certain organs in Chinese medicine. Was 3-5 the liver? I wonder. They’re definitely the hours my demons wake me up with trivialities: “You need to call the new booking agent back,” “You’ve got to do laundry today” and “Oh my God! You total jerk, you forgot Heidi’s birthday!” Agitated as a felted sock, I find myself staring at the ceiling. When suddenly, I’m flooded with all these “great ideas” for the album cover, a new sticker, and lyrics for a new tune. Stitched to the sheets moments ago, I rip myself out of bed to write a “to-do” list and while I’m up, I figure I may as well dash the song lyrics down.

This life,
It breathes me in
I’m a puppet
In a beating production

Clothed in skin
I tend the fire
And find the courage to
Leap
In

Once that’s done I think I better draw a quick sketch of the sticker idea.

And once that’s done I think I better peruse some magazines to find something that matches the mood I want for the album cover.


The next thing I know, I’m up for the day. I read. I put together a photo album. I wander around the house in my baby blue flannel PJs with the clouds on them (A gift from Mike Nichols) cleaning out the drain in the kitchen sink. I hang pictures on the walls wondering whether the neighbors mind me hammering nails at 4:45 am.

At 10 am, coffee in hand, I make it to the studio. We listen back to the songs we recorded yesterday and decide, with fresh ears, whether we want to try to get a better take of them today. Then, infuriatingly, nothing happens. I mean NOTHING. It’s as though someone hits pause on the studio and leaves me unfrozen and exasperated. It might look to the outsider like everyone is doing something, after all, Michael is touching knobs on the soundboard, Brian’s stretching his wrists, and Kenny and Soucy are snacking in the kitchen tossing grapes into each other’s mouths but nothing is really getting done. I sit in the bathtub (where a Sharpie penned sign now reads “Sally’s office.”) I make calls, return emails, and knit Kipp a birthday sweater (never mind his birthday was 3 months ago).

By the time Michael’s ready to record it’s 3 pm and I’ve already been on my feet, strapped into my guitar for an hour itching for momentum. I stand in furlined slippers in the middle of the living room, in front of a mic stand, to the right of the piano with the flowers (which are mostly dead now) facing the door. But maddeningly, It’s another hour before the recording actually begins. First, we have to get drum sounds, then bass sounds and then we have to get the right mixes (for each of us) in our cans.*

By the time we’re recording, it’s 4 pm. Believe it or not, it only takes 3-10 times playing through a song (barring technical difficulties like computer crashes, pee breaks, and re-tuning) to get what we need on tape. There are always a few things that need tightening up after we’re satisfied with a take: the bass is late, the drums are early, you can’t hear the snare, and stuff like that so things need to be patched in, glued on, so to speak. By 6 pm or so, it’s time to prep the room again for the next song, decide which bass drums to use, which angle to place the microphones, which bass tone, which version of the song to try first… fast? slow? samba? techno?

By this point it’s 8 pm, I am exhausted and there are people I don’t know hanging out in the control room,* listening in to our recording session, drinking wine way too near the control board for anyone’s comfort. These people are residents of the home studio. They’re getting off work from a long day of tree trimming or serving coffee or bank telling. All of them are ready to cut loose and all of them feel entitled to hang out in our control room, smoke grass, and talk drunkenly while we try to work.

This infuriates me. Sometimes I’m cool about it and drink a glass of wine with them and listen to what it was like to fell a knotty pine with one chainsaw. But mostly, I’m exasperated about having to step over reclining bodies between takes, and the thought of having to rearrange the room for yet another song feels unbearable. But just as I’m about to revolt, kick everyone out of the control room — just when I think I can’t stand being in the studio one more second and want to cry that my liver is waking me up at 3 am, we listen back to what we’ve recorded — what we’ve given birth to. The noise we’ve made has been transformed into music. The lyrics have taken shape and found meaning, propped behind chords and harmonies and I am rejuvenated — exhilarated like a proud mother watching her tiny baby take its first steps.


And at 11 pm, as I walk out into the parking lot, under a star-filled sky, guitar in hand, I know I can sustain another 3 am wakeup call if it means watching this album come to life.


FOOTNOTES:
Basic Tracks: Recording Drums and Bass.
Cans: Headphones
Control Room: The isolated room where a Producer and Engineer work and where playback and listening happens.

Day 4 – “Ghost in the Machine” – January 21, 2000

Yesterday had its ups and downs.
Our first day of basic tracks* was productive until nightfall when we started experiencing some concerning glitches. Tracks we’d recorded moments before stubbornly froze, refused to playback, and then disappeared entirely. It was extremely frustrating to finish a great performance only to watch the recording of it vanish into thin air. Losing tracks means losing studio time, equipment rental time, and most importantly, what money can’t buy, enthusiasm and energy.

Jeff Dvoren & Kim Havel (of “For Kim”)


Fortunately, today the computer gods are with us and we’re making progress on “Dvoren,” A song I wrote about a geeky-longhaired physicist I once struck up a conversation with in a hot tub when I was at ‘college. Jeff sat on the ledge of the broiling, color-changing tub, the steam enveloping his white, overtly hairy legs and skinny arms. He spoke with a lisp and a faint stutter as he told me he’d discovered the rate of disintegration of something called the “Z particle” and thus had been given a full-ride scholarship to Penn State. As he went on enthusiastically about his little-known “Z particle,” I found myself edging closer to him. I was so taken with his brain, so excited about his knowledge of physics that I insisted he stop talking. I was going to have to kiss him. We dated throughout the spring before he left for Penn and I for Colorado. I have no idea where he is now.

The studio’s beginning to look more like home … probably because let’s face it, we’re living here. My clothes are strewn about the living room, my favorite mug and house plant have moved in, and I’ve adopted a couple slow-moving, stinkbugs bugs which I hang out with between takes in our vast common room which smells of cedar and marijuana and warm apricot honey. The sun rays spread throughout the room and dust fairies drift through, oblivious to the musical which they appear to sway and dance to.


This is the new and improved Sky Trails, the same home studio where I recorded “TomBoy Bride” but with an upgrade. The studio and all it’s equipment has been moved from Lyons, CO to Boulder, CO. Its new canyon view is a spectacular mountain scape, lined with tall pines that empty into a snow-kissed Boulder with its endless eastern horizon. The ceilings are tall and vaulted with plants peering like peeping toms behind high-ledged corners. There’s a kitchen to the left of the control room where we relax and eat popcorn and Brian taps on a wooden table with drumsticks. On a huge black grand piano sits a purple bouquet of irises next to a dozen or so red candles. Kenny sets his new mechanical hula girl doll beside the flowers — a gift from his father-in-law for Christmas. We gather around it like kids at a “show and tell” as Kenny switches it on and suggestively mimics its gyrating. We’re all a bit giddy—we laugh easily and hug freely. I think the boys are as relieved as I am that recording is finally underway.


Moving in seemed endless between Michael’s need to tinker and my need to nest. Like a bird, hauling twigs to a birdhouse, I collect props and assembe backdrops for my fledgling songs. Each needs its own setting, its own nursery. For example, when Michael announced we’d be starting with “All This Time,” a retro 70’s tune, I hung beaded curtains on Brian’s makeshift drum tent and adorned each player in rainbow sweatbands and huge orange sunglasses.

And in the evening, when we recorded “Forty Years,” I lit 30 candles and poured everyone a glass of cabernet to set the tone.



Footnotes:
*Basic Tracks: Bass and drum tracks that scaffold each song.